


Seaside Improvisation

by kyrilu



Series: Creaturely Imperfections [2]
Category: Hanna (2011), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Gunplay, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Mommy Issues, Multi, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Safewords, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks: <i>it was in the roses.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Following "Ode to the Vinyl Record", but you really don't have to read it (poetic-y nonsense can grate, I realise that). Just know that this takes place in an alternate canon universe where the events of Skyfall really never happened and Bond/M/Silva has recently become a thing. You don't have to have watched _Hanna_ \-- everything will be explained.
> 
> This fic also happens to be the kinkiest thing I've ever written. But there is plot. I swear, there will be plot.
> 
> Final Warning: don't read this if you're looking for a healthy, fluffy relationship. Sleeping around with your boss (current or former) a.k.a. maternal figure =/= a good idea. Sleeping around with an evil cyber-terrorist =/= a good idea. You get the picture.

M doesn’t get her hands dirty.

Instead she watches Bond and Silva fuck (or, rather, Silva fuck Bond, most of the time) on the bed, on the floor, on the sofa, white suit and black suit and a tangle of hands.

The important thing is that she keeps eye contact with Bond, who looks at her like he’s drowning, and then she kisses the come off Silva’s hands. It’s the worst kind of teasing in that Bond isn’t allowed to press his mouth against her or touch her or fuck her, but that’s how it’s been for years. Not the sex -- it’s that impersonal forced distance which makes him shake harder than ever.

One day she brings a length of wire from Q branch, specially made for restraint, and Bond thinks it’s the most humourous thing in the world, used in this context. _This_ meaning the moment when M says, “May I?” -- when it really isn’t a question at all.

Bond’s fingers twitch, but Silva says, with a smirk on his face, “Let me show the boy how it’s done, Mum.” His eyes are heavy lidded, his shoulders slackened; Bond recognises this as _submission._

He holds Silva against the wall with the wire now in his hand. Silva shifts his sleeves, exposing the white of his wrists, and Bond ties, making quick and economical knots across and under. “Well. Here’s one useful thing a double-o picks up,” he remarks, and M laughs, a sound that makes his stomach tighten in anticipation.

It’s done. Silva’s chest pressing against the white walls, Bond behind him; Bond’s fingers crumple at the lower back of Silva’s suit, grasping. Then he falls away -- he doesn’t know what to do. Not yet, anyway.

“Scared, James?” Silva asks softly.

“Not on your life.”

“There are so many things you can do, _meu amor,_ ” Silva says in a rumble. “So many things. You can shoot me, if you like. Right now. Isn’t that your job, 007?”

Bond’s eyes go to M. His response is clear: _not without the order._

She’s just watching, bright eyes and a tilt of her mouth.

Siva continues, “You can fuck me, if you like. Urgent and hot and sweet, like your one-night stand bitches, the whole useless lot of them. That fucking secretary -- Moneypenny, isn’t that her name? Or that Q; you’re not picky, yes? With your pretty young things.”

Bond lets out a low growl, and now he _grabs_ at Silva’s wrists, the wire digging at his palms. It’s the right thing to do, he realises, noticing the almost-imperceptible hitch in M’s breath -- M is breathless, Mummy w _ants_ and he does, too, _please._

Silva lets out a low breath. He heard it, too; the both of them have, attuned to M for years and years upon end. The man who burned and the man who drowned, and they somehow end up here, in a hotel room with white walls and white hair and the white oblivion of pleasure.

“Come on, James,” Silva says. “We’ve let this drag on long enough.”

His hands tighten Silva’s wrists and he inches closer. Waist pressing against the back of Silva’s dress trousers, heat pooling to his groin.

“Jesus,” he says, and he pulls himself closer to Silva, feeling his erection hardening and it almost _hurts_ , and Silva makes a little pleased noise, almost like a whimper.

“Please, James,” Silva whispers. “Don’t want to disappoint me. Don’t want to disappoint her.”

He can calculate the rate of M’s breathing in that single minute, and it’s perfect and obvious and he continues to tease, spooning Silva’s arse, and then he slips off Silva’s trousers, manoeuvring it so that Silva’s bound wrists don’t get tangled. The trousers pool to the floor, a belt following them with a clank, and Bond starts to touch.

He traces the fabric lines of Silva’s pants, everything so slow and simple that it’s the most natural thing in the world. He closes his eyes once his hands close around Silva’s burgeoning prick, but M says, “Open your eyes, James.”

Bond forces his eyes open, and -- “Good boy,” M says softly.

“Your eyes are beautiful things, James,” Silva says, almost conversationally, when Bond’s fingers begin to stroke, rhythmically. “I installed a camera in one of your hotel rooms, once. There was this girl -- do you remember her, that slim blonde, she had the most sensitive nipples You should’ve seen yourself, then, my dear. You were -- ah, good, _good_ \-- so desirous, eyes like glass and ice, glazed over, and perhaps even watering.” He hisses through his teeth when Bond _twists_ his hand just so.

Then Bond cuts off all motion entirely, just to see what would happen.

“ _Non deixe_ ,” Silva pants, desperate, and Bond smiles, and wonders how his eyes look now that Silva is begging in his hold. He wonders if M sees, wishes that Silva could see.

“Oh, Tiago,” M says, her voice a slight quaver; he’s begging begging _begging_. “Wait a moment, James. Let me listen.”

“Not a game, M,” Silva says, but of course it is. “ _Fuck._ I. Let me come, you old bitch, James, you needy slut, I _need_ ,” and he’s half-babbling in broken English and Galician, a mixture of _meu amor_ and _Mummy_ , pushing his hips to the wall. He’s struggling against the wire, but Bond resumes holding him tight.

“Beautiful boy,” is M’s half-whisper, like a benediction. She corrects herself: “Beautiful _boys._ ”

A shudder wracks Bond’s body at the sound of her voice. “Let me bring him off now, Mummy, please,” he says, hoarse.

“Touch him,” she says finally.

He cups Silva’s cock, and in response, Silva sighs, relieved. Gently moving his thumb down the head, back and forth, Silva rocks against his fingers, and they’re dancing together like this, as daft as that sounds, shaky breaths and hushed supplications.

When Silva reaches orgasm, his come splashed between Bond’s fingers, Bond groans, wishing for his own release.

But M shakes her head. No. She settles into a sofa, prim and proper, and outwardly not aroused. She says, “Good job, James,” as if this is a mission, a duty, and Bond moves towards her, weak and still hard and Silva sinking against the wall, breathing deep, the wire on his wrists.

Bond rests his head on her knees -- he’s on the floor, taking in the smell of her. She curls her fingers in his hair, and he waits until their time together will run out.

 

*

 

Bond’s sitting in a posh bar near MI6, clasping his martini. He doesn’t plan on drinking heavily tonight, maybe just two drinks, three, and then he’ll go back to his flat and wait until he receives word about the next job. Not a shag tonight -- he hasn’t been sleeping round ever since Silva had first fucked him in front of M, and there’s an explanation in there somewhere, but he’ll never get round to figure it out.

Then: he catches a glimpse of snow white hair among a crowd of people, a dress suit to match, a tight mouth. M. What the bloody hell is she doing here? He takes a sip of his drink, steadying himself.

And she’s really the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. M smiles cooly when she sees him, her eyes crinkling, immaculate in her white, and a glass of wine in her hand.

Bond wonders if she’ll fuck him tonight, if she’ll allow him to cup the outline of her breasts and open her mouth to his.

She approaches him. “Shaken, not stirred?” she asks, indicating his martini.

“Oh, of course. The usual,” he says. “You know my taste.”

“I do,” she says, the curve of a smirk on her face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a woman buy a drink?” M says, and Bond barks out a laugh. “Hmm. You think that’s funny, now, James. You’re not the only one who enjoys the comfort of alcohol.”

 _No, you were looking for me_ , is on the tip of Bond’s tongue. He thinks: M called him _James_ , like those _nights._ A bolt of realisation strikes him, and the urge to search for Silva tugs at him.

“There’s a room for us,” she says softly, jerking her head above, for this bar is connected to a hotel. “Silva has the other key. He’ll be there.” She touches his hand, and she leads him to the lift, the sensation of her fingers running across his a promise.

Bond holds the lift open for her, ever the gentlemen, and when they’re inside, only both of them, he makes a sudden movement for some sort of contact more than hand-holding, but he receives a noise of refusal in reply. “M,” he begins, but she presses a finger to his lips.

“Not here, James.” The lift slides open, and she pulls him towards a room labeled _007_. “Thought you might like it,” she says.

“Thank you,” he says, wry but oddly flattered. He waits as M unlocks the door, and Silva is the first sight he sees, patiently sitting on an armchair, legs crossed as he flips through a newspaper.

“You’re here,” Silva says with a long-sufferingly sigh, “and isn’t that adorable, you’re holding _hands_? How quaint. Mm, I should fix that.” And he jerks them apart and kisses Bond, all teeth and roughness and bite, and Bond reciprocates in kind, because this is how it goes.

Silva pushes Bond to the floor, pressing down his shoulders, and like before, he kneels. And then Silva takes out a gun, and Bond’s eyes widen, his hands snapping down to his suit pockets and finding them empty. Fucking hell.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he says, eyes narrowed.

Silva puts a finger on Bond’s lips. “Shh, shh, don’t you worry, _meu amor._ Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ve got you. Stay down.”

Bond’s gaze slides over to M, but she doesn’t protest at the proceedings. She only quirks an eyebrow at him, and he thinks of the way she said _beautiful boys._

The gun. The bloody gun -- it isn’t Q’s specialised palmprint-activated model; he’d lost the last one. This is his old gun, an unmodified Walther PPK, dark and shining, and this isn’t a _game_ , but it is.

The gun strokes the side of his face, curving down the crescent of his stubbled cheek. Under his chin. Up his other cheek. Involuntarily, his eyelids flutter shut as the gun skims across his neck, and all he sees is black. He’s _dizzy_ , all oxygen gone from his system when he stops breathing, is Silva going to _shoot_ \--

It’s an old game, the fear of a bullet, but this. Well. This is new.

The muzzle creeps up, lingering at his cracked lips (dry from anticipation), a teasing of cold on his upper lip, and he fights back a gasp when Silva pries the metal into his mouth. “ _Silva_ ,” he snarls, guttural and animalistic, but he’s cut off by the _cold._

Silva hushes him again, a gentle rustle of air. “Don’t think, James. It’s okay, my boy. Think of this as punishment, hmm?”

Bond chokes on the barrel as it slides under his tongue, and he can feel himself getting hard, wanting to fuck, wanting to _be fucked._ Heat shocks his body; he’s _burning_ and he doesn’t want to be seen like this, never like this.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “ _M._ Don’t look at me.” He chokes again when Silva thrusts the gun, harsh and unflinching, and it’s going to go down his fucking _throat_ \--

“She’s watching,” Silva says in an undertone. “She _sees_ us, dear boy, and I’m not going to stop. Even if you beg, even if you cry pretty little tears -- don’t you realise how beautiful you are, James?”

He gags. The gun (his gun, his own fucking gun) is tearing at his mouth, and he can’t hold all the metal inside; he’s almost drowned and he’s been choked and he’s been poisoned, but this is the worst asphyxiation he’s ever experienced. His mouth forms the word _refuge_ as everything begins to go dark, and he hears M say _stop, Tiago_ , and he slumps to the ground, the gun clattering in tandem.

Bond tries to breathe.

He can hear M’s footsteps, quick and piercing, and the sound of a slap ringing in the room. He looks up, and Silva’s cheek is red from her hand, and he doesn’t know what to do except _laugh._

“Sorry, Mum,” Silva murmurs like a chastised child, and he shoots Bond a pointed glare. “Didn’t know that we agreed on a safe word.”

“If I got captured,” Bond says, and his throat is raw, “and tortured, I’ve the option to use it. I could call for backup. If it got too much.” He adds, “I’ve never used it.”

“Of course you haven’t, you mad fucker,” M says, but Silva interrupts and says, “A new protocol, hmm?” and she averts her eyes.

“I don’t regret it,” M says eventually, measured.

“I know, Mummy,” Silva says quietly. “You wanted to hurt me. And I suppose you instated that new rule in for your precious James, didn’t you? After my, ah, unfortunate incident.”

“No, Tiago,” she says, and she kisses Silva lightly.

The grim set of his mouth smooths over into a smile.

Bond picks up the gun at his side, weighing it on his palm. It’s light. Bullets removed. Chamber empty. Safety on. He touches his lips to the trigger and knows that this is trust.

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the promised plot.

Bond and M decide to eat breakfast at the cafe below the hotel. They had slept in separate beds, and that’s all right, Bond never expected anything more than what they’ve got -- whatever it is. Silva had left after kissing him sloppily last night, a lopsided smile on his face almost an apology, and he had promised that they’ll both come the next time round.

They find Silva lounging on a booth in the cafe, hunched over a laptop. Bond tenses, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his instinct taking over -- _shouldn’t he be gone by now?_

But Silva stands, grinning at Bond’s reaction, and he buries a hand in Bond’s hair, like he’s a _dog_ \-- but he _stills_ , calmed.

“No need to make a racket, James,” Silva says soothingly. “It’s breakfast time, my boy. Then you can go on and shoot whoever you like. But breakfast first.” He nods, as if he’s giving sage advice; he pulls a chair out for M, then Bond, and Bond sits, silent.

This doesn’t mean anything except Silva’s fingers twist in his hair before pulling back. M orders breakfast for herself and both of them without having to ask what they would like.

Silva types away at his laptop, the tip-tap of his fingers blending in with the cafe sounds of silverware clinking and conversation. M sips her tea, and Bond watches the steam of it rise from a cup.

“We should do this again sometime,” Bond says sardonically, breaking the silence, and he swirls a teaspoon in his own tea.

Silva beams, and says, “Of course, my dear.”

A slow smile travels up M’s face, and Bond supposes that everyone’s in agreement, then.

 

*

 

“Your next assignment, 007,” M tells him later that day. “One of C.I.A.’s unfortunate failures. And a rather gruesome conclusion, at that. Do not underestimate your target.”

Bond sifts through the file. An envelope lies in his hands, which he opens, and says, “A concert, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she says. “Q will get you fitted with appropriate weaponry. We’ll brief you on the way. Good luck, 007.”

“Thank you,” he says, his fingernails drumming over the ugly pug, and she swats them aside with her fingertips, her eyes stern and amused.

“It was worth a try,” he says, and dashes out before she can respond.

 

*

 

Q gifts him with an earpiece, a tech-equipped watch, and of course, a replacement palmprint-activated Walther PPK for the one he’d lost. “Don’t you dare misplace this again,” he says. “There’s only so many we can keep churning out, 007.”

Bond cocks a grin in Q’s direction and says, “No promises.” The gun fits back into its familiar holster, and he scrutinises the watch. “So. What’s this do?”

“It has various functions,” Q explains. “One, it’s a distress signal -- those are always handy, of course. Second, it can sent out electrostatic energy blasts to any enemies if you’re in a close bind. Just brush your fingers on the crown here, and it’ll send out volts.”

“Mm,” Bond says.

Q rolls his eyes and says, “Is that a thank you? And I saved you by the skin of your teeth last mission, 007, and you still haven’t thanked me, either. You could’ve bought me lunch.”

“It’s not in my practise to provide junior agents with snacks, Q.” Then Bond turns the invention over in his hands and says: “Can it tell the time?”

Q glares. “Of course it can. It’s a watch.” _You bloody git_ , is the unspoken insult.

“Wise move,” Bond says. “Loads of innovations these days seem to sacrifice necessity and worth over flashiness and gimmicks. As your generation well knows.”

Then he’s out the door, but not before he hears a strangled yelp of protest when Q realises he’s been insulted.

He takes his place in the driver’s seat of his car. Over the comm line, Eve says, “You really enjoy riling him up, don’t you?”

“Of course not. That would be unprofessional.”

He can practically hear Eve’s chuckle. “Understood, 007. Now. To the theatre, yeah? The name of your target is Hanna Heller. She is, essentially, from what I can understand--” Bond hears the noise of shuffled papers -- “a super soldier.”

Bond starts to drive, listening carefully to every word. “And the C.I.A. is responsible for that?”

“Right,” she says. “D.N.A. alteration, plus proper training from an ex-C.I.A. operative -- it’s a nasty business. Heller left a trail of bodies in her wake last year. German C.I.A. agents were pursuing her, trying to gain control of her.”

“MI6 wasn’t involved?”

“We weren’t aware,” Eve says. “Apparently, it was a bit of a bureaucratic mess. The agent in charge, an Agent Wiegler, overstepped her bounds. She recruited a former agent -- a man named Isaacs -- to accompany the chase. Heller killed him, along with Wiegler.”

“So Heller’s still loose. And now in England. Am I to take care of her, then?”

There’s a pause on the other side of the comm. “Yes. She’s shown signs of being uncooperative and dangerous, if we use her previous C.I.A. capture as an example.” Then Eve says: “Heller was fifteen. She’s sixteen now.”

“Damn,” Bond mutters, and he wishes for a glass of martini. “I understand. All right. Thank you, Agent Moneypenny.”

“Good luck,” she says, sympathy in her voice, and Bond thinks that it’s enough kindness, for now.

 

*

 

He’s been reserved a concert seat right next to her. He shifts in the velvet plush seat, straightening his tie as he idly peruses the orchestra pamphlet. His eyes glance over the title. _The Planets._ In seven acts, _Mars_ through _Neptune._

When Heller arrives, she comes with a family of three -- a mother, a father, a son. Heller has a red rose bouquet in her hands, her dress a clashing blue, perhaps to match her eyes.

She freezes when she sees him, her glass blue eyes trailing down the length of his body, from head to toe. Heller says, “Did they send you to kill me?”

Bond starts. _Bloody hell._ He keeps a calm facade. “I apologise, are you speaking to me?” He mimes peering around at the other seats -- beside, behind, in front.

“Don’t try to trick me,” the girl says, and her voice, previously appearing British, is suddenly tinged with something sharper, harsher -- German. “I can read you. You’ve got a gun in a suit holster right there and your body language is quite telling. I can see you, mister.”

“Excuse me--”

“Who sent you? Are you going to kill anybody else?” Her gaze steals over to the family next to her, who are talking animatedly to each other. Bond picks up the name _Sophie._

He’s still quiet. As if he hasn’t heard her.

“You’re not hurting them,” she whispers, her mouth an inch away from his ear. “There’s a coffee shop across the street. Meet me there after the concert is finished. If you try anything now, I’ll scream -- I’ll accuse you of hurting a defenseless little girl. Or maybe I’ll kill somebody sitting in the row in front of us. I suppose you’re government and you don’t like casualties or ruckus.”

“Whatever you say, miss,” Bond says blandly, but it’s the perfect set-up. Eve can clear the scene for him, and he touches his earpiece to make sure that she’s paying attention.

Whatever tricks Heller has up her sleeves, Bond can manage. He has every advantage in his favour -- Heller has merely empty threats, for he knows in his bones that she’s a domesticated killer, tame, and too long out of practise.

The music notes soar from the stage, and Bond waits.

During intermission, Heller leans over to say, “You should leave whatever they’re making you do, mister. Find someone, run away with them. A friend. Whoever. You should leave. Killing’s hard.”

She then considers this. “No, it’s easy. But it’s not fun. Even if they tell you that it’s important and you’ve prepared for it after years and years.”

Bond says, “You don’t expect me to have a sudden morality crisis now, do you?” And he realises that this is the first almost-true thing he’s said to her.

She smiles at him, crooked. “No. No, I didn’t. But it never hurts to say.”

“My name is Bond,” he tells her, and he’s going through the motions, charming and coaxing. “James Bond.”

“Hanna Heller. But you know that.”

“Miss Heller,” he acknowledges. “And who is the lovely lady on the stage? The one who you’re going to give roses to.”

Small talk never hurts, honestly, especially if one of them is going to end up dead.

“Her name is Sophie,” Heller says, and when she says the girl’s name, it’s wistful and dream-like and right out of a fairy tale. “She plays the violin. I like to think she’d got into music because of me.”

Their conversation ends there.

 

*

 

Heller gives her girl the roses, and Bond strolls out toward the coffee shop, taking long strides as he tunes in with M, who has now taken control of the comm system. “Have you secured the perimeter?”

“Affirmative, 007,” M says. “Is the target approaching?”

“Heller’s coming,” Bond says, “merely wanted to say a last goodbye to her sweetheart.” He shakes her head. “She’s capable of ruthlessness, ma’am. It’s the right move not to underestimate her.”

“Stay sharp,” M says, and then she falls quiet.

Bond makes two coffees when he’s inside the deserted shop. One for her, one for him. He takes a seat on a chair, hand clenched around his gun, mug on a table.

The bells on the door clink against each other when it opens.

She’s pointing a gun at him, and she says, “I always take precautions, you know.”

He thinks: _it was in the roses._

“So do I,” he says, indicating the empty room. “No casualties. No ruckus. And any 999 calls regarding Hanner Heller and her associates are to be disregarded tonight. Just in case.” He pushes the mug across the table. “Here.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” she says, and it reminds him of how much of a kid she is, but she has the stone cold blue eyes of a killer to make up for that.

( _MI6 likes them young and orphaned; MI6 likes them reckless and self-sacrificing and their star agent has eyes the colour of--_ )

He closes his eyes to remember the pattern of M’s fingers on his. _Beautiful boy, beautiful boys._

Then an explosion shakes the foundations of the building, and he and Heller stare at each other in mutual surprise, and they _run_ , the place collapsing all around.

Bond curses into his earpiece. “What the bloody hell just happened?”

“That wasn’t us,” Eve says, muffled. “What the _hell_. That can’t be Heller, either, there’s no way she has the resources to do this. Hold on. Let me get in touch with Q.”

“There’s a third party involved,” he says to Heller. “Damn it. They’re after you, aren’t they?”

Heller frowns, her forehead creased, her eyes dancing. “I’ve been able to hide for a year, Mr. Bond. I think you being here -- having the government involved, that’s what alerted them to me.”

“Well. That’s unfortunate.”

“We’re going to have to kill them first,” Heller says decisively.

“Casualties and ruckus,” Bond murmurs, and it’s a temporary truce, for now.

“Q traced the signal used to detonate the coffee shop bomb,” Eve reports, finally flickering back. “The name that comes up is _Grimm._ Sound familiar? Q’s looking it up now.”

Grimm. Grimm and Germany and D.N.A. and--

“Buggering hell,” he says under his breath. “Fucking _bastard._ ” His heart pounds while he recalls one of his last assignments. “Silva’s contacts, Eve,” he says. “I was supposed to intercept their meeting, and I got decoyed.”

He’d stuck a note on an alley wall in Germany, and really, when it came down to everything, it was a stupid flirtation and the mission had been canceled and he never thought to ask Silva about it.

There’s a harsh intake of breath that Bond recognises as M. There’s a click in his ear when she closes the line to only them.

“We got played, Mum,” he says, and he waits for her to tell him what to do.

“I know how to contact him,” M says tightly. She reassures him: “Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, another chapter! :) I'm going to try and update often, because I understand that waiting for WIPs can be quite frustrating, so here you go.

**Author's Note:**

> IF THE NONNIE WHO HEADCANON'D SILVA AS GALICIAN IS READING THIS, LET ME TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU, AND THANK YOU AGAIN. <3


End file.
